


Discrepancy (or Some Sort of Strange Omen)

by soulcoughing



Category: Original Work
Genre: Character Study, Disturbing thoughts, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-10
Updated: 2020-05-10
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:13:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24103423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/soulcoughing/pseuds/soulcoughing
Summary: Polly Denning, consumed by fuck-all, goes down rabbit holes too deep for one who still is learning what in the goddamn hell slope is and, despite that very inherent ignorance of the concept of slope, still somehow obliviously digs her own grave in the process. It’s almost charming. It could be more charming if Polly wasn’t getting too close to Nancy for her own good.
Kudos: 1





	Discrepancy (or Some Sort of Strange Omen)

Nancy thinks that cloudy weather in Marchends should be counted as some strange omen. She wonders what people would really do if this became some great Marchendite knowledge; she’s sure the great variety of washed-out, deadbeat men in their forties wouldn’t mind it too much. They’d smoke in their cars, probably, thinking of the times when they were forced to go to church. The fretful housewives would react with greater concern — making bologna sandwiches for their children, working their hardest to keep them occupied, chewing their nails as they looked through the window. Nancy wonders what Polly would do.

She knows Polly is scared of her. She sees it in the flitting eye contact (like the wings of a scared bird), and the way her fingers clasp together (small and pale like some awkwardly close ends of a deer’s antlers), and how she always tries to occupy herself with something else once she sees Nancy (nervously reaching into her pockets, putting her hand on Poe’s back, biting the inside of her cheek, looking at what’s around her like a small, caged animal). But, as much as Polly is afraid of her, she’s interested, too — that’s a rather suitable downfall for a girl like Polly. She’s always thinking. That, in fact, is how Polly would react to such an omen. It’s only reasonable. Polly Denning would be musing on the weather, under a tree or something that keeps her so, so far away from people. She gets consumed by things, too: Nancy can tell it from the lingering gazes that imprint into her back. Polly thinks Nancy doesn’t notice it. Nancy definitely does.

Polly Denning, consumed by fuck-all, goes down rabbit holes too deep for one who still is learning what in the goddamn hell slope is and, despite that very inherent ignorance of the concept of slope, still somehow obliviously digs her own grave in the process. It’s almost charming. It could be more charming if Polly wasn’t getting too close to Nancy for her own good. She watches the top of Polly’s head from the patio, spots her before Polly probably wanted to be spotted. Nancy prides herself on her organization, her wit; she hasn’t slacked off in her operations despite how thoughtless the adults in Marchends tended to be. So, basically, get your dead animal trophies discreetly, and then put them in a shed. Clean them and whatnot. Still discreetly. Lead a life of being discreet. Have a thirteen-year-old mosey around in your shed (she can’t connect that to Nancy, and Nancy still has no idea if Polly even noticed her hobby—step four or whatever would be hiding them with the gin bottle Nancy has stored—but, yeah, too close) and try handling that discreetly. Of course. Discrepancy. Or discreteness. Whichever. She’s not really sure which one’s right at the moment, but she’ll find out later.

Nancy, as she goes further down that thought line, wants to murder Polly a bit more than she already did.

“It’s nice weather, right?” Nancy asks, putting down her book. The fifth reread of Atlas Shrugged was going well enough. Polly bristles: she obviously didn’t expect Nancy to have seen her already.

She falters, collecting herself. Polly gets her mouth to move, albeit lamely: “yeah. Sure.”

Nancy tilts her head a bit — that always gets Polly to swallow or clench her jaw — letting the breeze sift through her hair. The wind chime sings softly, the sound too tinny and high to be of any comfort. Polly wrings her hands through her clothes.

“Lemonade?” Nancy offers hospitably, though there’s no warmth to her tone. Polly’s eyelids twitch ever so slightly. Nancy notices that with Polly: her irises flickering, pupils getting ever-so-smaller, lips downturning like she’s smelled bad cheese, but it’s all subtle enough for you to pass it off on nerves instead of genuine fear or disgust. She shakes her head curtly, probably familiar enough with Nancy’s personal beverage preferences to pass. Fondly, Nancy remembers the delightful way Polly’s face scrunched up when she first offered Polly her cola (doused in enough gin to get a beginning drinker hammered in ten minutes or so), back when they talked on the bleachers that one fateful day. If she weren’t so irritated with Polly’s new habits to the point of wanting to strangle a thirteen-year-old, she’d probably smile. Watching Nancy uncertainly, Polly sits across from her, one of her bony legs bouncing. The sun ever-so-slowly peeks out of the clouds, just enough for one single bleak ray of sunshine to hit the wooden floor.

Maybe that’s an omen in itself, but Nancy doesn’t mind it.


End file.
